


scrapes and grazes don’t much bother me no more

by Winterborne



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Comeplay, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Deepthroating, Emetophobia, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Rape, because god dammit, brock has a filthy mouth, bucky is there for steve at the end, i love vaguely happy/hopeful endings, some references to bucky/brock as well
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 03:24:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14179452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Winterborne/pseuds/Winterborne
Summary: Hey, boy with the yellow halo for hair, what you doing in a place like this?





	scrapes and grazes don’t much bother me no more

**Author's Note:**

> One of the pieces I did for the MCU KinkBang. My amazing partner for this one was [Lasenby](https://bedofphoenixashes.tumblr.com/)! Please go check them and their lovely art out! :D

Bucky had always scolded him on being too reckless. Said he was too impulsive, throwing himself in harm’s way at the first sign of it.

_“You’ll get yourself killed one of these days, Steven,”_ his mother had said many a time, and after she had passed Bucky had taken it upon himself to lecture him on it in her place. Steve thinks they didn’t expect it to go down exactly like this.

It’d started out similar enough, seeing someone swaying down an alleyway, obviously drunk but aggressive nonetheless, shouting down the backstreet as she went, shouting and cursing at _someone_. So he’d moved, like he always did. He had rounded the corner and everything was still normal, the view of an altercation nowhere near foreign to him. The person Steve came to protect had been keeping the woman’s arms in a hold, frozen in the space between them like she’d tried to take a swing. It’d only been when Steve’s entrance drew the attention, and the woman had managed to rip free and bolt passed him and out onto the streets, had Steve realised the amount of shit he was really in.

Now, staring down at him in the dark alleyway between looming, derelict buildings, air stale and faintly smelling of piss if Steve had to put a name to it, was Brock Rumlow. The exact same Brock who’d been keeping his grip relentless on Bucky when Steve had first met him, the same who’d spied and guilted and screamed at them, the one at fault for Bucky’s lost arm.

“Fancy meeting you here,” Brock drawls, slow and as if he’s expecting something. A nasty look’s on his face, despite schooling his features to almost friendly. Steve could see it in his eyes. Steve knew that look. He can feel his body start to give in to instinct, flight over fight for once in his life, and distantly he thinks Bucky’d be proud of that. A split second later, and Brock’s throwing something at him.

He scrambles to catch it, barely does, and only has a moment to process the heavy black fabric in front of his face - a coat, maybe a coat? - before the force of something colliding into his midsection nearly takes him down. Again, Steve scrambles.

Except before he can struggle much, there’s an iron grip around both his wrists and what is maybe a coat being ripped from his hands and thrown to the side, crumpling in a mess by one of the walls. Brock’s staring at him, eyes near slits as he stares Steve down, and Steve can’t help but note how he’s encircled his wrists with just one hand.

“Thanks for the rescue there, Stevie, although,” he says, tilting his head to the side, “I think I had it under control.” He smirks and Steve watches him, looking over the scars mottled over his face, down his neck, and stretching until they disappear under his shirt. He’s at least glad to see Brock didn’t get out of that last incident with Bucky not bearing his own reminders.

The hold around his wrists tightens and Brock yanks at them, bringing him closer. Steve bites back a yelp and is glad he’s able to keep his footing. The last thing he wants to do is fall into this guy. Now, Brock’s grip doesn’t loosen.

“Whoa, Rogers,” the fake shock in Brock’s words is nearly dripping from his tongue, “don’t think I’ve ever heard you rest that mouth of yours for so long.” Brock inhales deeply at his own words, eyes going wide a moment until they tighten back to his normal glare. He pauses a moment longer, and speaks again. “In fact, if you aren’t gonna be swearing up a storm with it, may as well put it to use somewhere else. Gotta pay me back somehow, right, Rogers?”

Before Steve can finally snap at him and ask what in the hell he means, Brock has his jaw squeezed in his other hand. He can feel something slick and grimey rubbing off from his fingers, staining the sides of Steve’s face. An acrid stench invades his nostrils and when he grimaces, Brock’s fingers dig further into the flesh of his cheeks.

“Open up.” The air Steve’s breathing in is the exact same bitter taste as before, but he can feel his gag reflex working when the words hit his face. He struggles again only for Brock to bear down on him, any hope that maybe his grip was slipping gone when he’s jerked back into position. Steve glares up, tense, and suddenly his regular instincts kick in when he takes a breath in and spits up at Brock’s face.

He feels like if they were in a place with better acoustics, he would have heard the echo of it hitting his cheek. It’s a nice thought to stop on before his wrists are freed only for Brock’s fist to collide with his stomach. Steve feels his knees give way, trying to curl up around himself as his lungs ache and scream for air. He’s left awkwardly dangling from Brock’s grip around his jaw, a sure bet there’ll be a bruise forming there later, tears pricking his eyes when the taste of bile finally arises.

Brock sneers down at him, nails digging harder and harder into Steve’s skin until he releases him, Steve’s body crumpling to the ground below. He wants to scream and shout, curse Brock out for all that he’s worth, except his lungs aren’t cooperating and his hands are scrambling around his jeans for his inhaler despite the fact he’s distantly aware it’s not his asthma playing up, feels his ribs and diaphragm refuse to move instead.

A few agonising seconds later and Steve’s body works with him again, a deep gulp of air in and then out, that same ache present all throughout but lessened a fraction. A reprieve, before Steve can feel the drag of fingers through his hair and a sharp tug. His head is wrenched upward, neck twisted up until the muscles strain with the movement.

It’s only when Brock starts to shush him, comforting little noises which only succeed in worsening the ache, that he realises he’s been whimpering. Steve stomps them down, down to rough inhales and exhales and feels a small bit of victory at that. Except Brock’s spare hand goes down to the buckle of his belt, undoing the clasp with practiced fingers, and the sounds only slip out again.

One of Steve’s arms rush upward, the other curled around his gut and clenched around the fabric of his shirt, and he tries to push at Brock’s legs and hand. He tries for any more distance between them but his arm only shakes with how far he’s pushing his muscles and how little difference it’s making. The belt’s undone and opened up alongside Brock’s jeans just as quickly, the top of it pushed down and fly pulled apart. Steve doesn’t want to see what’s ahead of him, but a harsh yank from Brock’s hand and he has no choice.

Steve doesn’t quite know what he expected when he’s forced up to an eye full of Brock’s crotch. There’s a penis, half hard but still flaccid enough that it’s simply dangling there in front of his face, head completely covered by foreskin, and he really doesn’t know why it startles him as much as it does. Regardless, he is startled. He’s frozen in place, muscles tensing and heart pounding as he stares. Over the sound of his own pulse, he hears a snarl from above and the hand in his hair readjusting.

“What?” It’s Brock’s guttural voice, Steve notes, breaking through the haze of his thoughts. “Buck never told you what I liked?” Steve’s eyes snap up to cold brown ones, glaring and curling his lips in his own snarl. His teeth are gritted together, can feel the strong exhales from his nostrils over his upper lip, and he’s ready to scream or bite at Brock. Except Brock’s hand pulls him closer a lot quicker than he can think and there’s the thick slide of Brock’s dick against his cheek.

His other hand goes for Steve’s face again, but this time his fingers caress instead of bruise. A thumb strokes over Steve’s bottom lip, rubbing and tugging to see the teeth behind it, and Steve can’t fight the urge to squeeze his eyes shut anymore. Brock gives his lip another once over before he stills and the bile and the want to fight become the only things to occupy his thoughts for a still moment.

“You know,” Brock starts, tracing over the points of Steve’s lower incisors, “there’s a lot I could show and tell people about Bucky.” He pauses, silence covering them long enough that Steve starts wanting to glance up, needing to know what he’s doing, but Brock beats him to the punch and hums in a thoughtful tone. “A lot I’ve done to him.” Steve doesn’t dare open his mouth to shout his anger, his disgust, not with how his stomach is crawling with acid. “So how about you be a good boy, and we can keep everything between us?”

Then Brock’s fingers are travelling the entire expanse of his lips one more time before hooking into his mouth, past his teeth and nails digging into the floor of his mouth to pull it open. It’s only a second before there’s something else, something other than Brock’s fingers, larger and blunter and sickly warm, poking at the top of his lip, and Steve’s eyes hurt with the force he’s squeezing them shut with.

He wants to bite down, clench his jaw shut and grind his teeth with the amount of fury he so often feels when burnt, but he thinks of Bucky. He thinks of their fixer upper apartment and the queen sized bed they’d saved up so long for and their quiet nights out with friends that Bucky’s finally settled into, and Steve relaxes his mouth instead. There’s the pressure of it pressed against his lips until he relaxes, and relaxes, and then he can feel it on the top of his tongue. The slide is easier than he imagined it’d be, no struggle with overstretching his lips and taste inoffensive as far as he can tell. Steve’s eyes relax a bit, tongue simply lying at the bottom of his mouth but at least attempting to move his lips in something resembling a blowjob. The fingers in his hair rub, soothing, until they tighten again and Brock pulls. His hips meet it halfway and Steve chokes.

His throat burns and he can feel the muscles working around it, convulsing around that thing, and there’s already tears and snot on his face as he grabs at Brock’s legs. Pushing and pulling and clawing does nothing, Brock stands solid and strong, the intrusion in Steve’s throat only letting up when Brock’s hand pulls him back far enough. Steve’s silently surprised he’d managed not to throw up, even with his weak gag reflex from years of pills, but he isn’t sure to be thankful or not. Regardless, he doesn’t have much time to consider it before Brock has him pulled forward again.

In and out and in, yanking Steve by the hair as he thrusts; it’s a rhythm Brock quickly finds and predictable enough that Steve feels a weird sort of calm coming over himself, not quite acceptance but closer to it than he’d like. Like this, he’s able to go along with the motions, mind a low static and focusing more on the gravel under his knees and the sharp cold settling into his fingers. Follow the pull from his hair, a stone digging into his left knee just about as painful if not more so, deep inhale on the way to make up for his throat being blocked, flex his numbing fingers in the air when there’s the pressure of skin and wiry hair pushed against his nose, before he’s allowed to pull back and breathe right before those fingers pull him in again and-

“Shit, sugar.” Brock’s voice again, cutting through any concentration Steve thought he’d had. He pretends as if he didn’t almost choke with it. “Look at that mouth of yours, working my cock so _pretty_ ,” Brock grunts out the last word, hips snapping forward and crushing Steve’s nose, “gonna, _fuck,_ gonna get those lips all red and swollen for my cum.”

There’s a distinct sting in Steve’s eyes and the faint smell of iron at the base of his nose when Brock continues. It’s the tremble of his lip that he decides to focus on controlling instead.

The hands on him and, shit, _cock_ thrusting into his mouth are getting rougher, harder, enough that Steve can’t think of anything but what’s happening. He can’t care too much about that part however, not when he just wishes Brock would shut up. He’s spewing words now, a dam apparently broken somewhere, calling him whore and sweetheart and _‘I’m gonna paint that face of yours so good, baby’_. A hand comes down, cups his face, and fingers probe over the skin they can reach. They drag over his chin, under his lips, spreading something wet and cold. It leaves a sticky path up to his cheekbones, digging at the bone there, before following the crooked arch of his nose and resting on his upper lip. However dry Brock’s fingers had gotten in its path is quickly forgotten, toying with his lip until his digits are just as wet as before.

Steve’s scrambling again, throat sore and lungs starting to burn, wanting - needing - any way to slow down and catch a breath. Except Brock’s fingers only get rougher, needier, as he keeps forcing his way inside Steve’s mouth, cursing and spitting as he goes. It’s choppy and angry until it isn’t, when Brock stops halfway in with the head of his dick resting on Steve’s tongue, and suddenly all Steve can taste is bitterness and salt. He freezes, eyes shooting open for the first time and staring ahead as he just breathes and tries to restart his brain. A rumbling groan, long and deep, vibrates above him and it’s apparently enough to kick Steve into gear. His hands go to punch and slam again, trying to pull back and get away, but the hand in his hair tightens and there’s a quick grip around his throat, wrenching him back into place.

“Don’t swallow,” his voice is gruff, panting for the first time that night. Steve doesn’t try to respond, not when the hand around his throat moves to restrain his wrists again and he starts to pull out. Brock’s dick slips free soon enough, grazing against his lips for a second before flopping back down.

The fingers gripping his hair relax, the shooting pain across his scalp turns to a burning ache as Brock leaves his scalp be. Instead, he coaxes at Steve’s lips once again, sore and used, until Steve gives one more pointed glare, looks away, opens up, and they dive in.

Two go at once, Brock’s trigger and middle finger, swirling into the middle of his tongue and gathering as much spit as he can. A small thought crosses Steve’s mind, a memory of the grime he’d felt pressed against his face from those same hands earlier, and Steve has to suppress a gag. When Steve realises Brock’s most likely collecting more than just the saliva in his mouth, he really does gag this time.

“No wonder Buck went for this,” Brock drawls, eyes fixed on where Steve’s mouth envelops his fingers. “So easy to keep down. Fuck, he probably wanted a taste of what it was like on this side.” The fingers pull out, dripping more saliva and something else Steve really doesn’t want to think about over his chin. They drag over his lips, smooth over the hurt, until he can feel every bit covered, wet and sloppy. It’s gentle almost, slow and soft, and Brock stays quiet, still apart from that hand. Steve’s skin crawls and his head feels almost like it’s spinning.

He chances a glance up, unable to stay still, and catches the blown out pupils and lax jaw on plain display from Brock’s face. He freezes, Brock catching his eyes with his own, and Brock groans low in his chest.

Steve’s eyes burn, his chest burns, and he feels it in and shooting up his throat. It’s all the warning he has before he’s able to rip his body to the side and retches onto the ground. He gags into the tarmac, throat convulsing, until his stomach finally finds something to vomit out and he’s left there puking on his side, dangling from where Brock’s still holding his wrists.

When he is let go, it’s with a white hot rush of panic followed by his face crashing into the ground below. Steve simply lies there a moment, cheek stinging and unpleasantly warm, laying on the gravel and the contents of his own stomach. One of his arms comes up, an anchor to push himself up and into the façade of some kind of dignity, but there’s the pressure of a boot pressing onto the side of his head. It’s not hard enough to hurt, not really, just hard enough to rub his face further into the mess at their feet.

A chanced glance up, and he can see Brock’s pinched expression, only regarding him as he keeps him down. He looks Steve over once more, head to toe to head, and scoffs.

“Fucking disgusting.” His breathing’s back in check as he tucks his softened dick back into his jeans, zipper a loud shrill in the empty night, “wonder if he’s sick of you by now.” He presses his foot down just that bit more, enough for Steve to grimace silently at the pain, before he pulls back and strolls across him, towards the alley exit.

Those boots hitting the ground echo in Steve’s ears, water and sludge sloshing about in Brock’s wake, waiting for them to eventually fade. Instead, they stop, at seven paces they stop and all Steve can hear is a quiet grind of heel against gravel before, “Oh, tell Bucky I said hi, would you?”

The footsteps continue and, this time, disappear into the night. Even then, Steve waits. He isn’t sure what for, but he waits.

By the time he pushes himself up off the floor, hands and knees first, and then to his feet, it’s with a stumble of aching joints and one of his feet feeling particularly numb. He leans against the wall of the alley, waiting out the pain of his pins and needles. It’s nothing horrible, only an uncomfortable prickle around his feet, but at this point, Steve doesn’t want to end up once again falling to the dank alleyway ground.

Feeling comes back to one of his feet quickly, clenching and unclenching his toes and arching its heel in response. All weight deposited to that foot now, and only waiting for his other one to regain feeling and strength, Steve wipes at his face, smearing wetness in an attempt to be rid of it. When he glances down at his shirt sleeve, seeing the fabric coming away damp and with a slight white colouring, he rips his eyes away and scrubs with his other hand instead.

By the time Steve feels well enough to move, he’s fighting sniffling noises, desperate to keep his face dry at least until he finds himself home.

Walking out and into the street again, he doesn’t focus on processing much. His eyes strain against the strong, intrusive lighting of the streetlamps, squinting and shutting his eyes against them failing in blocking their images out. A normally twenty five minute walk is over before Steve realises it, and the lights are behind him and the door to his and Bucky’s apartment ahead

All too suddenly, Steve’s feet halt. The lampposts now seem dim, barely enough light to read the numbers etched into the front door, overtaken instead by the light shining out from the small, cracked window. That, still, isn’t bright enough through the cloudy glass to read by. Steve still feels like shying away from it, regardless.

In that moment, when he realises Bucky must still be awake, must still be waiting for him to come through that door despite the late hour, Steve feels like the deer in the headlights.

There’s that feel of grime rolling over his lips again, a film of dirt no matter how hard Steve had rubbed for it to come off ever present. He swipes his hand over it again, feels nothing but has to fight the urge to continue his efforts. He wondered if that’d be better than the alternative, however. His hair, he didn’t even need to run a hand through that to feel how it had matted. The parting was unmistakably roughened up, that he could tell just by how uncomfortable the roots stood on his head, and yet it was the kindest thing about it. A tug the wrong way this or that, and he could feel how parts of it was sticky, strands stuck together and disgusting. And Steve stood there, wiping at it now and again, but otherwise still, unable or unready to go on.

A slam echoed out from the apartment, and Steve jolts away a moment. The silence returns quickly though and Steve- Steve really should go in.

He can just imagine Bucky pacing the length of their lounge-dining room combination, waiting for the door to open. He’d most likely have the first aid box, usually stored below the bathroom sink, laid out on the kitchen counter. He’d be waiting for Steve to come back, expecting another scruffed up, post-fight Steve with grazed knuckles and a thing or two to say about some jerk he’d run into on the way back. Except, there aren’t any black eyes or bloody noses to look after this time, only Steve’s bruised lips and tacky hair.

Inside, though? Inside will be warm with a hot bath, a soft bed, and Bucky to soothe the memories out if he can think of the right things to say, an excuse here and there to get Bucky to drop it and either leave him to it or play nurse. Bucky knows him, Bucky knows Steve can look after himself, and Steve puts the key in the lock and turns.

When the door opens, he can hear the footsteps from down the hallway and through to the lounge for a second before they stop. When they come again, they’re hurried and walking towards him.

“Steve!” Bucky rounds the corner, not even passing the doorway, eyes wide and brows creased up towards his hairline, before he stills and his face changes to glare down the hall at him. “And where the fuck have you been?”

He’s stalking down the hallway before Steve can even think of a response, glowering as he grabs ahold of one of his wrists, turns, and pulls him behind as he goes. Steve only grimaces a slight bit, a small twinge of his face, as his feet almost fall over themselves trying to follow. He can hear Bucky grumbling in the quiet of their apartment, to himself or to Steve, he isn’t sure, but he catches bits of it regardless. Swears, mostly, but there’s the odd line about how Steve can never keep himself out of trouble, how worried he’d been, how he had just wanted to relax after work and not do this again.

Bucky only lets go of him when they’re passed the doorway, through the lounge, and into the joined kitchen, leaving him to rifle through the first aid bag exactly where it usually is. Steve stands on the spot, watches Bucky’s back and shoulders working and twists his wrist, feeling the joint protest against the action, wondering if he could curl up into himself small enough to disappear even after Bucky stops muttering his displeasures.

The shuffling noises of bandages and bottles and creams falls silent, and Steve waits for Bucky to turn around and gesture for his hands, except Bucky only glances behind himself, regarding Steve, a funny look in his eye. He turns slowly, empty handed.

“Steve?” It’s the first softly spoken thing he’s said and he takes a step forward, slow and small. He tilts his head forward slightly, and Steve realises he must be trying to get a look at his face, realises he’s been shrinking in on himself and letting his head cower. He glances up, tries to meet Bucky’s eyes, but finds himself only breaking away again. With another cautious step, and another, then another, Bucky fills the distance between them. They stand unmoving by each other, and Steve can see Bucky’s hands clenching and unclenching, going to move only to fall back by his sides again. Eventually, Bucky’s flesh hand rises, hovers close to Steve’s face, as if he were to cup it, before moving on and slowly fitting into the hair above his ear.

Steve’s almost relaxing into it when Bucky’s fingers tracer over some of the matted grime in his hair, and his hand recoils back. A quick look, and Bucky’s face is back to the expression he saw for a split second when he first came around the doorway, except now his mouth is moving silently, maybe trying to find the words for his question, and Steve really, honestly, doesn’t want to hear it, can’t have him ask about that.

“Did Brock ever _touch_ you?” Steve’s quiet, quieter than he ever thinks he’s been, but his voice is clear and when he finally looks up properly, Bucky looks as shocked as before, but he’s no longer looking at the skin of his hand in confusion. He keeps staring a moment, eyebrows crumpling up even more, before relaxing and letting out a little breath.

“No- no, Stevie, we never-” Bucky talks quickly, cutting himself off. He brings his hand back, tentative like before but this time sure against his cheek, voice no longer rushed as he says, “Rumlow tried to kiss me once, back when. Didn’t try it again after seeing my reaction,” his lips quirk up a moment, giving a small, forced chuckle as he searches Steve’s face.

Bucky gulps slightly and Steve can feel him keeping himself still. “You run into him, eh?” Steve nods and he can feel Bucky drawing circles with his fingertips. “He had some unsavoury things to say about me, hey?” Bucky’s looking at him softly, shoulders relaxing when Steve only nods again and he feels it all distantly as his mouth moves before he can stop it.

“He did- he- Brock did, to me.” Bucky tenses up all over again, face frozen and staring down at Steve, his hand stopping Steve from looking away now. His eyes are wide again, wild almost, as they flicker across Steve’s face properly for the first time, to his jaw, his hair, his _lips._ Steve’s emptied stomach lurches again but instead of vomit, all that comes up is more words. “I didn’t let him do much, I swear, I- look, just some scrapes and grazes, you know? That’s never-” The sob that rips out of his throat is both expected and a surprise all at once, and he can’t even pull away to hide the large, fat tears that come.

_“Oh my God,”_ Bucky chokes on the words, reeling back, rigid, before he’s pulling Steve back into his arms. Steve’s face is nestled into the soft cotton covering Bucky’s chest, one arm wrapped around Steve’s middle and the other smoothing through the strands of his hair, cradling the back of his head as he feels Bucky pressing his face into his crown, whispering.

He’s shaking, or Bucky is, Steve’s not too sure as he sobs into Bucky’s chest. The fabric quickly gets messy, wet with tears and snot and his gasping breath. It’s thoroughly soaked by the time his heaving dies down, but he can’t find himself overly worried about staying there when he can hear small _“your safe’s”_ and _“I’m so sorry’s”_ being breathed into his hair like a prayer.

Steve rests against Bucky as his cries turn to shuddering breaths, rests still as those rack his small frame, wrapped up in those arms and lulled by the sound of the strong heartbeat deep in Bucky’s chest. He doesn’t realise how heavy his eyelids are actually becoming until Bucky speaks, can hear his voice as well as feel the rumble of it against his cheek.

“Shower, maybe?” he asks it low and quiet, not making any move to manhandle Steve himself. Instead, it’s only when Steve nods into his chest, a whispered _‘yes’_ in reply, and he shuffles himself, that Bucky moves with him.

Steve stays quiet, backs away so they aren’t pressed against each other anymore but not enough to fully withdraw, hand wrapped around Bucky’s fingers as he walks them through the the hallway, into their bedroom, and steps into the attached bathroom. Bucky doesn’t shut the door behind himself and neither does Steve, instead reaches for the light pull and tugs. The lights flash on, glaringly bright, Steve wincing with the room’s overexposure.

With the few seconds it takes for Steve’s eyes to adjust, Bucky’s already at their bath, leaning down to no doubt put the plug in. He stands there as the sound of water starts, unsure what to do with his hands and finding a particular tile on the floor and how the crack in it means they should probably look at replacing it once they have some spare cash, until Bucky’s voice brings him back to him.

“You, uh, you want me to leave?” Bucky asks, peering up at where he’s knelt by the bath, water running, and gives a small smile. Steve’s breathes in quickly, suddenly, and his stomach does a little lurch that isn’t unpleasant for the first time that night.

“No. No, please stay.” Bucky’s smile widens a tad, quick and so easy to miss if Steve hadn’t been watching so closely, before he nods and goes back to checking the water temperature. Steve exhales heavy through his nose, a tension in his body he didn’t even know he’d been keeping suddenly dissipating, leaving his muscles to loosen and his shoulders to fall as they relax. His fingers come up to the buttons at his shirt, they’re as nimble as usual in undoing them.

He’s surprised, slightly. Surprised at how easy it is for him to undress afterwards.

It takes him a minute, maybe two, before he’s down to his underwear. Soon enough, he slides those down too and steps out of them, leaving them in a small pile with the rest of his clothes. It’s then that Steve hears the sounds of water fading, and looks up to see Bucky turning the taps off to then waving his hand through the water, apparently checking its temperature again. When Steve walks over to him, Bucky’s head jerks slightly, an aborted motion as if he’d gone to move towards him but stopped himself.

“Hey,” Steve says, and Bucky’s head does that little movement again, rigid and choppy. “Hey, Buck.” With that, Bucky does turn slightly to look at him, a second or two more before he meets Steve’s eyes. Steve reaches down where Bucky’s kneeling by the tub and smooths his hand over his left shoulder, where mottled flesh entwined with metal, and, “Thanks.”

Bucky smiles wide this time and lays a hand over Steve’s own, fingers brushing over his, and Steve can feel the muscles underneath unfurling as Bucky lets out a breath of his own.

“Come on now, before the water gets cold,” Bucky says it with a laugh in his voice, the lightness that’d been coming to his speech more and more these days. Sliding his hand from Bucky’s shoulder, Steve’s eyes linger a moment more before, just feeling out the moment, and then he’s stepping into the bathtub.

It’s the perfect temperature, always is, and the water comes up to his a bit below his shoulders like usual when he’s fully in. Taking a deep breath in and closing his eyes, he lets his body relax and sink, face relaxing under the water. A second there, running a hand over his face and through his hair, and Steve resurfaces. Blinking his eyes open again, he pushes his fringe back, out the way of his forehead, and he swears his skin already feels cleaner. Steve leans against the porcelain surface again, wiggles about for a comfortable position, and then there’s the feeling of one of Bucky’s hands in his hair, ruffling through the short bristles at the back before continuing upwards.

Soon enough, Bucky’s reaching for the shampoo left by the side of the tub and Steve closes his eyes, happy just to feel his boyfriend massaging out the dirt and grime. He focuses on the feel of Bucky’s hands, fingers combing through his hair, slowly becoming easier and meeting less resistant the longer they work. The water’s hot, as hot as Steve likes it without actually being uncomfortable, and he knows it’ll be a while before it cools too much as it unfurls the tensions in his body. It’s all enough for him to lie back and breathe easy, thoughts on nothing in particular apart from the comforting sensations.

The next moment he comes to himself, it’s to Bucky’s light humming, tune familiar but too lethargic to put his finger on a name. Bucky’s hands have stopped moving, and instead they simply lay still, curled into his hair.

“Steve, baby, I’m gonna need to wash this out now.” Steve tilts his head to the side a bit, following Bucky’s voice, and he can see him holding a plastic jug, the one they keep by the shampoos and soaps and conditioners, already filled with water. Led by memory, eyelids having not yet shook off the heaviness over them, Steve leans his head back, eyes closing with one, deep inhale in. The water that flows over his head and face is steady, the same nice warmth as the bath. Bucky’s hands start up again, working along with the trials of water, and by the time he’s done, Steve doesn’t much feel like opening his eyes again.

What could have been seconds or a few minutes later, Steve isn’t sure, not with how he’s dozing, there’s Bucky’s arms under and around him, lifting him out of the cooling water and up against his wide, warm chest. Steve can feel Bucky kneeling, letting them down onto the floor until he has him cradled in his lap, leaning into him. The chill only has a moment to strike his skin before there’s a towel being wrapped around him, snug and with Bucky’s hands rubbing over it, drying off the water still clinging to him.

The towel is fluffy and soft, and Bucky’s warm and solid and so very there. When Bucky bundles him up again and by the time he’s carried him through to their bedroom, Steve realises he’d started sniffling again only because of the small, soothing hum Bucky gives, deep enough in his chest that Steve can feel it as well. It reminds him of the small runt of a kitten him and his mom had found when he’d been a child. Small, but with such a strong purr.

“We can figure out everything tomorrow, yeah?” Bucky whispers into Steve’s hair, pressing his lips there. Steve knows he’s talking about going to the police or, at the very least, _talking_ to someone about it. That someone being a professional, qualified and with Bucky’s, and maybe Sam’s, seal of approval.

He maybe would have argued against it, was still indulging the fantasy of it in the back of his head, but Steve knew Bucky, knew this argument, knew he was right. Tomorrow? Whatever tomorrow brought, it’d be difficult.

For now, however, Bucky fusses over Steve to a point where he’d be annoyed if it’d been any other situation. It isn’t, though, so Steve lets him until Bucky’s finally climbing into the bed beside him. He doesn’t touch Steve, makes no move to do so, and Steve wraps himself up into Bucky. He goes rigid only for a second, a second where Steve quickly thinks to take himself back and scold himself, but then there’s hands reciprocating, holding Steve just like he’s holding him.

“I’m sorry that…” Steve trails off, voice both rough and quiet. “I’m sorry.” There’s that sound from Bucky again, the purr-like comfort. Steve briefly wonders if he’d be able to pretend, pretend that nothing had happened and everything was like before, except Bucky starts talking, soft reassurances and affections and yeah, Steve thinks that he might be able to get through this too.

Bucky waxes poetic over how he’s always so brave. Says how lovely he is, throwing himself into his passions as soon as the inspiration strikes. Steve falls asleep wrapped into the warmth that is Bucky, thinking that maybe he’s ready for what tomorrow brings.

**Author's Note:**

> You can both find the art on [tumblr](https://bedofphoenixashes.tumblr.com/post/172536631559/something-in-your-mouth-nlasenby-2018) and myself [here](http://awinterborn.tumblr.com)


End file.
